


Un-Guilty

by OneThousandCuts



Category: Compilation of Final Fantasy VII, Crisis Core: Final Fantasy VII, Final Fantasy VII
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Cancels out most of Advent Children, F/M, Forward Time Travel, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Rating May Change, Slow Burn, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:42:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22444279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneThousandCuts/pseuds/OneThousandCuts
Summary: Sensing the malevolent consciousness lingering in the Lifestream after Holy, the planet transports pre-Nibelheim Sephiroth forward in time to cancel it out. Trapped in a post-Meteorfall world under the hawk-eyed watch of those who'd stopped a different version of him, Sephiroth must come to terms with himself and the crimes he did, yet did not, commit.
Relationships: Tifa Lockhart/Sephiroth
Comments: 42
Kudos: 88





	1. Mud Crawler

Sephiroth folded his arms and eyed the truck’s rafters, tracing their length back and forth as though reading. If he examined them thoroughly, perhaps he’d find words sufficient to avoid betraying the inconvenient knot the subject at hand had deposited in the back of his throat. “Hmm…hometown…”

Genesis and Angeal had a hometown in Banora. Or, so they did. Zack hailed from Gongaga, not far from here. Just now, this motion-sick cadet (Strife, was it?) had informed them that their mission’s locale, Nibelheim, was his birthplace. It drew into stark relief his lack of hometown as such. He had nowhere that harbored family or fond attachments. Midgar scarcely counted as a home. The confines of Shinra headquarters served only as a base of operations and was often where he slept if he felt the need. Before Midgar, he’d spent much of his late childhood up until he’d turned twelve in Shinra’s Junon military academy, albeit isolated from much of the student body there for an accelerated curriculum.

Not long after, there had been pressing concerns in Wutai, and that—

A loud _slam_ jerked the truck hard to one side, and its wheels temporarily lost traction on the unkempt mountain road.

“Sir…s-something strange just crashed into our truck!” the driver stammered, pumping the breaks to regain control until they came to a stop.

Sephiroth observed as the Nibelheim-born cadet hugged the wall and held his head, suppressing a series of hard gags. The likelihood he’d be able to withstand the first round of Mako treatments required to enter the SOLDIER program proper was minimal. He was more fortunate for that than he realized.

After a moment, he stood, exhaling lightly. “That would be our monster…” He stepped outside, into the torrential rains, leaving Zack to relay orders to take cover, and under what circumstances they should flee the site.

Retreat would not be necessary, but protocol was protocol. What, he wondered, would his life be like if he divested himself of it? Were he to abandoned Shinra, where would he go? What purpose might he take up? He remembered the Avalanche subversive who’d fought him back at the Sister Ray, somehow holding her own against him. Her words still stung; still resonated. What would he fight for that wasn’t the Mako giant’s iron-clad grip on the world?

Or was he deceiving himself into thinking he could slip away quietly, ensconce himself somewhere remote, and pretend he’d always been there? That was admittedly impossible. Shinra had propagandized his image too much for him to go unrecognized, and he knew they would not allow him the luxury of a conventional retirement. He was an asset, and divining how and why; trying to uncover what separated him from even the likes of Angeal and Genesis had by and large proven fruitless.

“Sephiroth, wait up!” Zack called after him. “Whatever that thing was sounded big. Probably shouldn’t get separated.”

Sephiroth cast him a sidelong glare.

“…Right. You take point. As usual,” Zack corrected himself.

“In addition to releasing monstrosities, the reactor’s malfunction is believed to have produced giantism in the local wildlife,” Sephiroth elaborated.

On cue, a green dragon—a species native to this area, as he understood—lumbered from behind a large boulder on the opposite side of the road from where they’d parked the truck. Its size indicated maturity, but it did not appear physically affected or enhanced. Its inconsistent aggression was another matter.

Sephiroth leveled his sword, calculating the most efficient method of dispatching the beast. Striking at its neck would bleed out its carotid arteries rapidly. One cut to incapacitate; two to kill.

He paced around to flank the dragon.

Zack assumed his position behind it, detaching the Buster Sword from his back. While he did, the dragon took advantage of the second of hesitation to sweep his feet from beneath him with its tail, flinging him head-first into a rocky outcropping.

Sephiroth snorted lightly. On top of figuring out the logistics of severing ties with Shinra, he’d also have to lecture his second in command when they arrived. Perhaps he’d merely neglect to do so. Few lessons could be absorbed through concussions.

Charging forward, he sank his blade between scales, angled up into the monster’s leathery throat, and sliced swiftly through thick, snapping layers of muscle and sinew. Blood spurted and spilled onto his gloves, arms, and chest.

He withdrew and leapt back.

The dragon steadied itself on all fours, lolling its head to one side to staunch the bleeding and hissed out a stream of fiery breath.

Averting the flames with a step, Sephiroth lunged for a second strike on its other side.

An eardrum-piercing screech reverberated through the air when he connected. It started out garbled in the dragon’s mangled throat but continued sounding after its fall and death, echoing off the surrounding cliffs. A whirlwind of dead leaves, twigs, and smaller rocks kicked up, giving way to a brilliant, drifting flood of Mako green.

“Ultima?” he uttered.

Creatures in this region were not known to possess such advanced abilities.

He braced himself, but it made no difference. Wind prickling and stabbing like thousands of biting gnats blasted through him, the glare blinded him, and the earth beneath his feet morphed into wet, sucking mire.

Spindly, invisible appendages latched onto his calves, dragging him deeper into the putrid sinkhole.

Not Ultima, then. Something he hadn’t encountered before.

He grasped for purchase on solid ground, but his hands plunged into more cold, grainy sludge.

Deeper he sank until the ground swallowed him. Rather than being buried, fluid darkness gripped him, suspending him in limbo. An all-encompassing presence inspected him with innumerable eyes he couldn’t see. It seethed with contemplative resentment, though he knew neither why nor how he could tell.

Voices assailed him and wormed into his head then, fast-whispering bizarre, disjointed accusations: _“You burned them, you summoned it, you infected, you destroyed, they died, you died, you ruined, you—”_

Sephiroth opened his mouth to protest, and it crushed his ribcage and throat, forcing the oxygen from his from his lungs.

His eyes rolled back into his head.

* * *

Two years had passed since Meteorfall, and finally, the Midgar area was seeing better pH-balanced rains, Reeve considered, squinting to see the van’s headlights through the dark. Pollution and debris the near-hit had kicked up had resulted in corrosive downpours for months. This precipitation was typical for early autumn, however, and tonight wasn’t cutting them any slack.

Beside him, Vincent sat in quiet disinterest or deep thought. He didn’t always make it easy to distinguish.

“Anything more on the Plate Stigma?” he said, alluding to the latter.

“No. No other cases have come forward…It’s a welcome relief,” Reeve confessed.

‘Plate Stigma’ was the unofficial colloquialism the W.R.O. had been using to describe the sporadic appearance of a necrotic skin infection that had surfaced in Meteor’s wake. About fifty people in Midgar had contracted it, and most of those who’d fallen ill had been evacuating the upper plate when the dust from Meteorfall had barely started to settle. Two had died quick deaths after losing their mental faculties, raising alarm, but afterward the rest had started gradually recovering. As of his most recent meeting with Rufus, their shared intel agreed the number of afflicted was down to just four, and they’d recently begun showing signs of rapid improvement.

Rancid city sewage and space debris distributed by an agitated Lifestream had been the final verdict for a culprit. There wasn’t much of it left to study, few experts were immediately available, and they had next to none of the right resources to throw at such an urgent undertaking. Thus, the issue was shelved until if or when it resurfaced. Ideally, that would be never.

In the meantime, whatever and whoever they could gather were dedicated to rebuilding infrastructure, encompassing massive projects on everything from water lines to limited power grids, and roadwork. Except for this one very specific road, as luck would have it. The main artery out of Midgar and Edge was closed for resurfacing, leaving only small, outlying country roads, most paved more of packed rocks and dirt than asphalt.

In this weather, that meant deep mud pockets, potholes, and no streetlights.

Reeve decelerated, feeling one of the back tires lose traction on sharp bump. Normally, the drive to Kalm took half an hour, or maybe forty-five minutes to an hour on the scenic route. Tonight, they were already flirting with double that, and they were still ten miles out.

Vincent leaned forward, adjusting himself and tapping a gold-clawed finger on the dash. “…What _is_ that?” he pronounced, followed up with a quick, “Reeve, pull over.”

“We’ll get stuck,” Reeve started to object, but opted to bring the vehicle to a halt in the middle of the road. No one was coming; not at this time of night, and not in these inclement conditions. “What do you see?”

“There’s someone on the roadside…”

Peering out the rain-splattered windshield, Reeve caught a glimpse of what had disturbed his friend. Laying off to the right, with legs splayed unceremoniously into the broken road and slathered in mud, there was a man. A large, built man from the disheveled shape of him. Hopefully not a body. The number of vagabonds traversing from town to town on foot—especially in and out of Midgar—searching for work or just some scrap of hope had lessened over the past year. It had been a while since they’d come across something like this.

Vincent pulled a pistol from a holster strapped to the side of his right boot and loaded a clip. “Maybe he’s lost.”

“This night just keeps getting longer,” Reeve sighed, but shook his head in worry. A routine supply run from Edge to Kalm was not normally so harrowing, but they’d reach their destination when they reached it. He would sleep when a bed was safely available. If seeing to this misplaced person’s safety meant that happened at sunrise, so be it.

He and Vincent exited the van simultaneously and drew up on either side of the reposed figure. Standing there, they froze, stock-still and gawking at the sight. Reeve ran a hand over his face, smoothing over his goatee to hold his chin. Vincent stared harder, trying to piece together what it was they were really seeing.

“Do you think he’s a clone?” Reeve broke the silence in a strained near whisper.

“The armor’s nearly identical,” Vincent replied.

Long, black coat closed by only one of its buckles at the waist. Silver pauldrons fastened with straps crossing over his chest. Black leather pants and knee-high boots. This person was dressed like Sephiroth, and if not for the mud caked into knots of silver hair and smeared over his face, would probably look exactly like him. His bangs appeared to have been recently groomed to chin-length, and his overall uniform was less worn, but there was nothing else to distinguish him from the megalomaniac they’d fought up north.

“He’s…breathing,” Reeve observed.

“He is.”

The man’s steadily rising and falling chest agreed. Quite possibly, the planet’s enemy was here in the flesh, roughed up and left unconscious on a back road like some hapless kidnapping victim.

“Regardless of why he appears—why he’s like—like this, it would be inhumane to leave him. And unwise.”

“Especially if he’s not a clone,” Vincent added, making eye contact through his periphery. “We’ll want to steer clear of Rufus and the Turks until we know for sure. They won’t let this go. The others as well…”

“Agreed. We need to figure out who—or what—we have here.”

* * *

Sephiroth lay, frigid, drenched, and covered in a layer of grime, whilst two hushed, anxious voices conspired over him. It reminded him all at once of his formative years and of the rainy season back in Wutai. He started to clench up one hand but thought better of it. If he remained still, he could assess his situation and extrapolate any role these two might have played.

“Sephiroth regenerated before. That we saw him die guarantees nothing,” the rougher, softer voice asserted—a confident fact, not anything he needed to convince his partner.

But inaccurate. He’d never died. He was different in ways he’d been searching out his whole life, but surely not immortal. Not one of the many mythical beings from Cetra legend in which he’d once taken an interest, much to Hojo’s displeasure. That…had been the same day he’d first learned of materia, too. He still remembered how angry the sub-par scientist had been when he’d called it ‘magic’.

Sephiroth caught himself. Why was he thinking about old, useless things like that? He and his mission had clearly been compromised. He needed to refocus on the matter at hand.

“How many clips did you bring?” the deeper voice questioned.

“Enough,” the other responded after a beat. “If he is who we think, he’s not at full strength.”

“Then…let’s load him into the van. I have a flat in Kalm where we can keep this quiet for now, and question him if he wakes…”

“Provided he cooperates.”

Kalm, the closest town to Midgar, located a full hemisphere away from Nibelheim. How and when had he crossed the ocean? How much time had elapsed since his Ultima incident? Judging from the strangers’ discussion, he’d at some juncture been presumed dead, and more than once at that.

Something more sophisticated than a simple monster attack had transpired on the road to Nibelheim.

Moreover, the one who’d determined he was in less than optimal condition was not wrong. A severe, aching chill permeated him. It called to mind a climate endurance test from back when he was small. Hojo had been rather irate then as well. He’d made a point of forgetting most of those days, but as he was now…

He would have his own questions.

Pretending he was only now stirring, Sephiroth released a disoriented grunt, though the disorientation didn’t require feigning. He opened his eyes a sliver, enough to peek out slightly. The taller of the two men had dark hair, a tattered red cape, and was visibly armed. The other appeared professional, if one was an executive found at the lounge after hours. He wore blue slacks and a button-down white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Somewhere along the way, he’d abandoned the jacket. He seemed familiar, but too harried to be a Turk. Shinra, undoubtedly, but probably not a department that typically required much of SOLDIER. The face reminded him of someone, but he drew a blank for a name.

He sat upright. Pain skewered through his head and ricocheted between his temples, but he did not react. “Where am I?”

The two exchanged a perturbed glance.

“An off-road route between Midgar and Kalm,” the blue man gave a measured answer.

Sephiroth surveyed his surroundings. There was indeed a pink smudge on the far horizon that could account for Kalm, but behind him, the clouds were devoid of the green and purple bruise Midgar’s lights usually impressed upon them. There _was_ a light source there, but no brighter than Kalm. In the event of a power outage, there should have still been evidence of the reactors’ function, but it was absent.

Significant, destructive events had occurred between waking here and when he’d felled the dragon, Sephiroth concluded. The only consistency between the two points was the weather—little more than an unpleasant coincidence. He touched the side of his head, checking for injuries.

A solution occurred to him. “Did… Avalanche move on Midgar?”

That was the only cause that fit. Avalanche had acquired enough data to disable him, and then they’d attacked Midgar. It wouldn’t have been their first try. He wondered if they’d gone back to Junon or if they’d employed a different plan this time.

“Avalanche no longer exists,” the red-caped figure supplied.

“We should get out of the rain. There are towels and medical supplies in the van if you need them. If you come with us, we’ll try to answer any questions we can on the way,” Blue invited him.

His invitation was suspiciously reticent. But then, he believed he was speaking to a dead man.

Avalanche, gone. He himself, presumed deceased. Midgar, reduced to a fraction or mortally crippled. What of Shinra? Had his keepers met with the same fate, that would decisively eliminate any challenge to his leaving. But there remained the troublesome riddle of what entity could wield the scope of power and strategy necessary to reshape the world so profoundly. Did this unknown factor still hold sway, or was it too a concern of the past?

The acronym, “W.R.O.” was modestly emblazoned on the black van’s side door. To his knowledge, Shinra had neither department nor subsidiary under that name.

Sephiroth stood. Gravity pushed down on him, the same sensation he’d felt during the Ultima—crushing and sinking. Overwhelmed with dizziness he couldn’t fend off, he promptly vomited.

The men closed in on him. Maintaining an arm’s-length distance, Red held his mud-matted hair back. Blue made low noise he couldn’t interpret through his own retching.

Finished, Sephiroth rose to his full height and shrugged them off. “I’ll go with you,” he half-growled, throat sour and rough. There weren’t any better options. He marched over to the van in long strides, fighting off the exhausted urge to stagger, and leaned against its side. A deep, searing twinge in his right side made him think of what it might feel like to be run through. Sloppily. He carefully palmed the spot. It was well-battered, but unbroken.

Blue hurried over to open the van’s back doors.

Rain continued to pour down in icy, unforgiving sheets, but rousing all the same. Clumps of soil slid down Sephiroth’s coat and splattered at his feet. Dark water flowed from the ends of his bangs.

He stared at his gloved hands, also well-sodden and blood-encrusted from his last fight. Mechanically, he peeled each one off, and stowed them in a hidden pocket inside his coat. He then unbuckled it and his pauldrons, stripped them off, hung them on the door nearest him to rinse, and stepped inside.

In the vehicle’s dim light, Blue’s face resolved into one he recognized. “Tuesti?”

“I was wondering if you might remember me,” he said, and handed him a large, white towel before turning to rummage through a chest of medical supplies. “Urban Development didn’t work with SOLDIER regularly,” he quickly filled in.

“I take it you left Shinra,” Sephiroth probed. It was as good a place to start as any.

“By default. Aside from Rufus’ personal estate and his Turks, there’s not much left. I head up a group called the World Regenesis Organization now. In a manner of speaking, it’s what’s replaced Shinra…I can only hope for the better…”

Reeve, Sephiroth noted, was a nervous talker. His supposedly out of place presence inspired an adequate degree of discomfort in the man that he’d not be able to withhold much from him.

“Did you defeat them?”

“They collapsed under their own weight,” Red replied.

Reeve’s associate, on the other hand, carried himself more aloof; mission minded. He reminded Sephiroth of a Turk. Why were they holding back? Was it possible the W.R.O. were the ones responsible for his lapse, and if so, what had they done with him in the interim? Were they merely retrieving a misplaced prisoner?

“You were involved,” Sephiroth accused.

“To an extent. My colleagues and I…friends, really, helped neutralize one of Shinra’s most critical mistakes. The consequences of both are what brought them down,” Reeve explained.

Red leaned back into the only empty corner. “Sephiroth,” he started.

Reeve halted in place.

Sephiroth lifted his head. So, they did both know who he was.

“…What’s the last thing you remember?” he continued.

Sephiroth draped the now-damp towel over his shoulders and frowned. If his suspicions were entirely correct, they shouldn’t have to ask. “En route to an assignment in the Nibel area, a green dragon attacked our truck. It…used a rare Ultima technique, which opened a sinkhole. I awoke here.”

In exchange for his answer, Red only studied him more intently, ducking his chin beneath his cape’s deep neck. “Green dragons?”

Reeve nodded, picking up on a nonverbal signal Sephiroth couldn’t decipher. “Can you tell us what year it is?”

“September, εyλ 0002. The date is…uncertain,” Sephiroth replied. “It was the twenty-second…The monster’s blood is still on my gloves, so not long...”

“The month is correct, at any rate,” Reeve affirmed, clearing his throat. “It’s the twenty-fourth.”

“It’s εyλ 0009,” Red informed him. “It’s been seven years. Green dragons in the Nibel area are all but extinct. A cataclysmic shift in the planet’s geography two years ago wiped them out. You weren’t aware?”

“No.”

“May I see your gloves?” Reeve requested. “If what you say is true…”

Sephiroth idly plucked them from his coat pocket and handed them off. Because of the rain, they weren’t as caked as they’d been, but a distinctive coppery crust had formed beneath the layer of half-dried mud.

Reeve accepted his gloves and scraped the bloody flakes into a small jar he’d extracted from a cooler. Once he’d stored it, he looked to Red, “Vincent, would you mind driving us the rest of the way to Kalm?”

Vincent made a displeased sound, but wordlessly stepped into the cabin and turned over the engine.

Unhooking his drenched but less-soiled belongings from the van’s open back door, Sephiroth pulled both sides shut, while Reeve fetched a crate and sat.

Brows knit, he appeared worn and in fact aged by Sephiroth’s estimate. Not substantively so, but enough for white hairs to have started in on his temples. He and this ‘Vincent’ weren’t misleading him. 

“Something abnormal has occurred,” Sephiroth stated.

“That it has…If the sample tests positive as Nibel dragon’s blood, we’ll have to entertain some unconventional possibilities.”

“You had said that I’d been confirmed deceased more than once.”

Reeve hesitated, and then sighed, giving up part of his charade. “About two years ago for certain, yes. You were missing the five years prior.”

“And?”

“The details are complicated, even for us. I…won’t burden you with them yet. Not until we can take the right set of risks into consideration. If this was a sort time anomaly, for instance…”

 _If_. If that’s what this was. It seemed unlikely. No such magic existed, but what Reeve and Vincent had first theorized, about his being a clone? The S.R.D. under Hojo would have done that. It was possible he was not even himself. His own consciousness could be nothing but a hollow copy of the one who’d perished during the Nibelheim assignment.

Sephiroth felt his face twist painfully in spite of himself. His insides shuddered, and he wished for his sword, but it was nowhere to be found. He tried to stop, then, crossing his arms. An open display of vulnerability was a tactical error at best, but he was unable to wrest control fully. “This was Hojo’s work,” he quietly snapped.

Reeve flinched but remained seated.

“Any clones we’ve encountered in the past were never one-for-one replicas. You’d be the first,” Reeve replied rapid-fire, almost combative. He was frightened, but impressively immovable for it. “I’ll assign someone to analyze the S.R.D. archives we’ve recovered for evidence to the contrary, but it won’t explain why you’re covered in an extinct animal’s blood.”

At that, Sephiroth straightened. If the W.R.O. had the S.R.D.’s archives, then getting to the truth of his parentage was more probable than it had been. Or rather, the original’s parentage. His shoulders dropped, and he gazed almost vacantly at the van’s floor; at the rivulets of dirty water still pooling at his feet. If he did turn out to be a clone, was there a point? Should such a being continue to exist?

“A word of advice, Sephiroth,” Reeve spoke up again, impeding the thought that logically came next. “SOLDIER is gone. Shinra is barely a shadow. There are complexities to work out, but once we do, I suspect you may still have to find your way in this world. You’d do well not to count yourself so separate.”

Sephiroth scowled, turning his head aside. What did his self-perception matter in the grand scheme of things? It was unimportant. Enduring a fundamental disconnect from others had been his reality since he could speak. It meant nothing, and nothing could change it. “All I care for is how I came to be…here.”


	2. Rumor Has It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'RUMINT'-Rumors intelligence. Hearsay that may or may not prove useful or accurate in an investigation.

Underneath the bar’s counter, there was an ever-growing excess of supplies: new glasses that needed cleaned and sorted by type and size, aged wines that had survived the carnage of Meteorfall and graciously liberated themselves from high end restaurants’ rubble, fresh towels, syrups, salts, bitters—the list went on. Seventh Heaven, as reluctant as Tifa had been to make it the old Avalanche haunt’s namesake, was thriving. Families brought their kids in for lunch and a taste of Marlene’s personally tested and approved juice blends and finger sandwiches. She remembered how the ‘juice’ had only been those cheap powdered concoctions with water starting out, but these days, Tifa was able to come by the real thing for reasonable, if not necessarily stable, prices. A steady stream of regulars, office and construction workers fresh off the clock, stopped in nightly for drinks before returning home. Just last week, she’d hosted an engagement party.

People were rebuilding and settling back into normal routines, slowly shaking off the shock of survival along with any lingering hesitancy they might have had to look forward to the future. Life was picking up and moving on.

Tifa wasn’t sure what was in store for her. She’d given up on part of how she’d once believed things were supposed to work out over the long term. Stashed and organized alongside the wealth of inventory beneath her counter was everything Cloud owned, for he too was moving on. They were moving on—they’d _agreed_ to do this, Tifa reminded herself. They didn’t quite resent each other yet, but the writing had been on the wall that was where they were headed if nothing changed. They were separating because they were friends first and foremost. They needed to try to salvage that, if nothing else. 

The front door swung open, letting in two familiar women—both comically sharp-dressed for how defunct their employer was—and rescuing her from burrowing too deep into those feelings. Tifa stole a glance at the clock hanging over her main liquor display. It read five ‘til noon on the dot, as always. “Elena, Cissnei,” she greeted them. “The usual?”

“With a side of Reeve’s most recent transit schedules if you have any,” Cissnei replied casually.

“Tseng received some intel on an unusual delivery of cargo at Kalm late last night. You were Reeve’s last stop before that,” Elena sharply followed up.

“Elena,” Cissnei gently chided her while eying Tifa, “we’re friends here. This can’t be all work. Besides, friends are more willing to share.”

Tifa rolled her eyes and smiled half-heartedly. Cissnei wasn’t being entirely disingenuous. After she’d agreed to collaborate with the W.R.O. on some smaller supply chain projects and started letting Reeve use Seventh Heaven as a temporary cache, the Turks had started paying her regular visits. At first it was only once or twice per week. Then, she’d started side-tracking their interrogations with lunch, a little wine, and some light gossip—how Barret had run out an unruly drunkard out that one time and shot him in the butt, or how Cloud had lost an entire crate of brandy on a gamble. Most of the time, she was pulling their chains with wildly exaggerated versions of what had really happened, but they’d listen closely regardless, hoping she’d slip up and betray a few details. 

There was an odd sort of fun in their exchanges, and an awkward, tense friendship had in fact cropped up between the three of them over the past several months. Tifa suspected they were all on to one another’s games, but they appreciated her menu enough to justify stopping over for a break nearly daily now, so she played along. When they weren’t trying particularly hard, she could sometimes even coax them into sharing a ridiculous story of their own.

One mystery Tifa was trying to figure out for both curiosity’s sake and, planet forbid she should need it, leverage, was where Cissnei had been over the past few years. Supposedly she’d been a Turk longer than Elena, but she’d never surfaced with the others in pursuit of Sephiroth. She’d asked her straight-faced about it before, but Cissnei had brushed the question off with a noncommittal remark about playing a more clandestine role due to complications with a prior mission.

Tifa hadn’t dug too much more. What was there to know? Cissnei was a Turk, one of Rufus’ misguided, hopelessly loyal underlings just like Elena. She doubted she’d truly need something to dangle over their heads. Their power was woefully limited, and she wasn’t actually guarding anything strictly classified at the bar. They were simply adept at prodding her guilty conscience enough to make her feel like maybe she should be. They were too good at their job sometimes, but these days, their sincere attempts at cajoling her were infrequent, and they were fairly polite paying customers.

Unfortunately, she could tell today was going to be one of those attempts.

“Friends also don’t spill to other friends they don’t get along with,” Tifa scolded Cissnei. using a tone she usually reserved for an uncooperative Marlene. “But if a shipment of first aid for the Kalm office is really what Rufus is about these days, he must be pretty hard up. Tseng too. Lean times, few leads…”

“Vincent was observed arriving with Reeve. Why both of them?” Elena persisted, visibly flustered at the pot-shot she’d taken at their boss and leader.

“They were both headed into Kalm,” Tifa shrugged. “Can’t really say what Reeve has him doing for the W.R.O. around here. Could be anything. Vincent’s kind of a catch-all.”

That part, of course, was a lie, and they all knew it, but this was their usual song and dance. Vincent had most recently been scouting out Shinra’s old supply depots in Midgar for spare machinery parts, or better yet, whole units, but there was no need for Tifa to divulge anything about that. Mako-free manufacturing capacities were coming along too slowly, and rebuilding was a challenge when everything had to be old, rigged, or borrowed in the meantime. If ripping Rufus off helped build society back up at a faster pace _and_ deprived Shinra the ability to grow in a new set of fangs, it was worth it.

“Actually, I think I’ll try the tomato salad,” Cissnei continued, “with a light balsamic dressing if you have it, garlic croutons, and how about…the name of the third operative they picked up between here and Kalm.”

Tifa grimaced. “That’s…a new one,” she answered while she quickly gathered two large hothouse tomatoes, a cutting board, and a knife. Whatever Cissnei was on about now, she honestly had no clue.

“You don’t know?” Cissnei crossed her arms thoughtfully, watching her. “Hm…I believe you.”

“Our Kalm contact witnessed Reeve and Vincent with the third party. Tall, mostly covered. They were clearly concealing his identity, but we were able to confirm he’s hiding at Reeve’s residence there,” Elena pushed.

“They also said he looked a lot like Sephiroth,” Cissnei dropped.

As calmly as she could manage, Tifa paused in her tomato-slicing, set aside the knife, and set her palms down flat on the counter. “Please don’t joke about that.”

Fighting Sephiroth had been harrowing. Mortifying. How many times had she and the others nearly dropped their guard, thinking they’d finished him off, only for him to swoop back down on them in some new, horrifying form? To think that he might have only retreated…No. That was impossible, and too much for Tifa to process willingly. Cloud had personally struck the final blow and had seen his spirit energy disperse. Sephiroth was never coming back, and she took umbrage that Cissnei felt it was necessary to hit that hard below the belt just for some delivery schedules.

Unless Cloud had been lying to put her at ease all along. That had become a little too common for him over the past year. Now, she couldn’t help but wonder if it was just escalation from a bad habit that had always been there. He’d progressed well beyond his initial sweet sensitivity to outright walking on eggshells around her. Trying to keep her from worrying about him had evolved into obfuscations. But Sephiroth’s defeat—that would have been too big to keep under wraps if it was false or incomplete somehow. She hoped. 

Cissnei cocked her head slightly to one side; a tell that she _knew_ she’d hit a nerve and was trying to gauge its usefulness. “I wouldn’t worry—it’s just raw RUMINT, probably nothing. Visibility was low because of the weather. But if anyone might be aware of someone like that wandering around, it would have to be W.R.O. affiliates.”

Tifa shuddered. Gooseflesh raised on her arms. Maybe just this once, it was worth giving them a morsel of a hint for her own peace of mind. She knew they’d check it out and would almost certainly follow up with her for more. “Reeve and Vincent left here last night with a small load of supplies for the Kalm outpost—just food and first aid, like I said. It was only the two of them. I helped them load their van. They said they were planning to take an old back road leading out of the area near Sector 7 because of the construction going on. If you need somewhere to search…”

But Elena scoffed. “Tifa, we’re Turks; not paranormal investigators. We might not have a body, but if he were still alive, Sephiroth would have surfaced and done some real damage by now.

Cissnei nudged her with a cryptic, “But don’t forget what our subject was involved in.”

“Hoj—Oh,” Elena cut herself off. “Ah, I’ll just take an egg salad sandwich, Tifa,”

Tifa filed away the name Elena had almost blurted out. Hojo. They were looking into Hojo for some reason; not exactly the casual meddling she’d originally believed the Turks were up to. Something about Shinra’s own rotting garbage had caught their attention, and they believed Reeve either knew about it or was involved. Sephiroth was tangentially on their radar as well, which she cared for even less. The man himself was dead and gone, but before going their separate ways, she, Cloud, and everyone else had agreed not to share the news of Sephiroth’s defeat with the Turks, Rufus, or anyone still loyal to Shinra. The idea had been that if Rufus and his cohorts still thought they had a bigger mess on their hands; if they were chasing down phantoms, they’d have less time to hassle everyone else trying to lead civilization through recovery. Elena’s take made it pretty obvious that the desired effect of their secrecy was expiring, but that didn’t rule out clones, monsters, or other Jenova-related experiments if cleaning up after Hojo was what had raised the Turks’ hackles. It wasn’t as if Sephiroth hadn’t used those very things to raise himself before.

She’d have to tell Reeve the next time he passed through. Maybe sooner.

An uneasy silence passed between them while Tifa finished prepping Cissnei’s and Elena’s lunches. Her mind took advantage of the ominous implications to worm its way back down the sad emotional rabbit hole she’d barely avoided getting sucked down earlier.

She’d also have to warn Cloud about all of this, as he’d be travelling quite a bit. He’d put down a deposit on a room in Kalm, convenient both for his work and to create some distance between them. The days when he’d come home and hover—‘hover’ was putting it lightly—were gone, though she wasn’t innocent by a long shot.

For the first year or so after Meteorfall, they’d expected things to be a little off, and were patient. Cloud was still settling into his true memories—his true self—and she was his only link to those times, to their childhood, and the feeling had been mutual. He was all that was left for her as well, so they were content to be clingy, steadying forces for a while. They’d both had so much blind faith in one another…

“See? This is all give and take. You’ll have something to deliver to Reeve too,” Cissnei broke Tifa’s worried silence with a reminder that there weren’t any real secrets between them.

“You two know I don’t work for Reeve or the W.R.O.,” Tifa tiredly protested. “I help organize some paperwork for local projects as a volunteer and feed them. Community stuff and favors for friends. That’s all.”

“But Cloud does sometimes,” Elena said. “You’re an insider whether you like it or not.”

“That’s changing soon,” Tifa grumbled, sliding the two Turks their plates. “He won’t be using this place as his office, anyway.”

Tifa hated how everyone required an explanation for why she and Cloud weren’t attached at the hip any longer, but that of itself was just another sign of what a smothering turn their relationship had taken. If one came up in conversation, it was almost always in reference to the other, especially in her case. Toward the end, she’d felt invisible, like she was just an extension of Cloud, and that made it so, so easy to be angry with him over small, petty things. At the same time, she still felt she needed to watch over him constantly, because what if his mind slipped again? What if she couldn’t trust what he was saying, no matter how honest he thought he was being with her? How could she ever really believe they were out of the woods?

All she knew was that she couldn’t count on herself to treat him fairly or with anything resembling respect so long as her thoughts were nothing but a slew of old misgivings she couldn’t quite give up.

“…Did something happen?” Cissnei questioned, abandoning her formal, interrogative tone. Just like that, Turk time was over.

Tifa fetched and wet a dish rag to wipe the remaining tomato guts from the counter. “He’s coming to get his things later this afternoon. Cloud’s found a place of his own. It’s something we decided together…not really a big deal.”

“But it is,” Cissnei said.

“We were alright at first when things settled down,” Tifa sighed, “but…we couldn’t. We were so used to having to protect one another, but there was nothing left to fight. I was treating Cloud like a child, and he was always trying to save me from something that just…wasn’t there anymore. We didn’t know how to stop. It got so bad we forgot how to talk things out. We started keep secrets over nothing… So little space, but nothing really passing between us…”

“Not everyone has it in them to be that self-aware,” Cissnei tried to console her. “Perhaps you can reevaluate once you’ve gotten to know yourselves better?”

Folding the washcloth into a tight, perfect square, Tifa bit the inside of her cheek, blinking back an embarrassing urge to cry. She wasn’t bitter with Cloud, but something about the idea of trying again repelled her, like a kick to the stomach. Her eyes burned and her chest ached. How easy would it be to fall right back into the same old rhythm that had brought them to this point? “I’m not so sure.”

She was tired of her own paranoia, of constantly worrying about what might be on his mind, or what he was thinking about her specifically anytime his mood turned, or if she was truly good enough for him. She was exhausted from doubt and riddled with guilt over not being able to be open with him. On top of that, she feared losing him the same way she’d fear for someone’s life, and everything she was, every decision she made had somehow ultimately came to revolve around him. It wasn’t Cloud’s fault, but time off alone wouldn’t solve something so deep-seated. Just being around him had become a non-stop exercise in anxiety, and it was eating her alive. When struck with the realization that she was struggling to define herself outside of who or what she was to Cloud, that had been the final nail in the coffin.

And Tifa knew he was having the same problem with her.

Once there wasn’t a life-and-death, high stakes mission to focus on, and most of Meteor’s miss had been sufficiently cleaned up, daily life together had gradually grown toxic. If they tried to keep up this near-marital life together, it would eventually poison them against one another. It had to stop.

In retrospect, Tifa believed this all should have been predictable. She should have known, but when she’d finally made a move on Cloud, two years ago on under the Highwind, she hadn’t been counting on surviving much longer. She wasn’t looking to the future; she was just trying to cherish what she had in that moment, convinced it was all she had and would never come again. It should have been enough for her to be a reliable friend to him. She’d wanted too much. She’d been so selfish.

“Honestly, it sounds like it would almost be easier if Cloud were just an asshole,” Elena grumbled through a bite of sandwich, “but figuring out you don’t fit as an item after everything—that’s rough.”

Tifa nodded. “It does feel like I’m kind of killing something off.”

“Euthanasia,” Cissnei offered. “It’s better to put some things out of their misery so they don’t pass in too much pain.”

“I hope so,” Tifa said.

“Hey, you meet people every day here. Someone interesting will come along,” Elena added. “We can lend you Rude if you need a messy rebound.”

Tifa let out a weak laugh. It would be a long, long while before she was ready to go down that road with someone new, and she didn’t care much for the idea of rebounds. She could hardly begin to think of what she might want any future liaison to look like, but stability was at least part of it. “Not before I find help for this place. Even my weeknight crowd is starting to get a little overwhelming. Can’t really get to know anyone if I’m running around like a headless chocobo.”

* * *

When Cloud finally pulled up, carting a small trailer behind Fenrir, it was half an hour shy of reopening time for the dinner rush and regular bar service. Tifa had been waiting on her front doorstep for nearly the past two and had dialed his number three times. He’d never answered.

Dismounting the bike, Cloud immediately raised his hands in a surrendering motion, his phone dangling from one of them. “Signal between here and Kalm was worse than usual,” he explained.

Tifa exhaled slowly. She’d been ready to tear into him; ready to hit him with a barrage of questions about why he couldn’t be bothered keep her up to date on his plans. She had a business to run, and she shouldn’t have to guess what he was up to when they’d agreed on a time. It reassured her that this was the right path. Letting go of this was right. “Mm. I was wondering…” she answered in a measured voice, suppressing shame for how quickly her anger had flared against him. Mere miscommunications had become intolerable if they came from Cloud, because she couldn’t stop herself from turning them—and everything else he did—into a twisted guess or recalculation for how he really saw her.

This was right. She cared for him deeply, but together they only made one another more broken.

Wordless, they retreated into Seventh Heaven. Four back-and-forth trips later (she’d counted them), all of Cloud’s belongings were loaded up.

“So, this is it,” Cloud said, eying Tifa uncomfortably.

“Yeah...yeah it is.”

“Reeve will probably be keeping me busier than usual. The Kalm office is next door, and his place is only a block away. He and Vincent were in this morning. He was already making a list,” Cloud stalled.

Tifa perked up, recalling what Cissnei had shared about a third person. “Was there anyone new with them?”

“Turks again?” he asked. He’d walked in on their lunch breaks plenty of times before.

“Yeah, they said there was…someone they couldn’t identify,” Tifa said, deciding to circumvent Cissnei’s Sephiroth rumor for now.

“They did complain the weather delayed them until late—something about dropping off a wounded hitchhiker. I wouldn’t make much of it.”

In other words, Cissnei and Elena had made that part up in its entirety to toy with her. Tifa could almost kick herself for being so easy. If Reeve and Vincent had found someone broken down on the back roads, of course they would have stopped. The information the Turks had fed her was embellished at best, cooked up to throw her off kilter and make her cough up more than she knew she should. Naturally, this meant they’d not be checking in on anything for her, but were now aware of one of Reeve’s alternate routes.

So much for give and take.

“Well then…I’ll see you around,” Tifa said. And she would see him. As long as he was running errands for Reeve, Seventh Heaven was bound to be one of his regular stops.

Cloud made a small noise in agreement. “If you ever need anything,” he started, but Tifa stopped him, shaking her head before he could finish.

“I’ll find my own way. If I need anything, I’ll figure it out. I’ll be alright…and so will you, Cloud.”

“If you say so,” Cloud muttered in return, and his face fell. He mounted Fenrir, turned over its engine, and sped away without another word.

“It’s for the best,” Tifa reassured herself aloud after she could no longer see him. “Helping me out of pinches only hurt you anyway.”

She took a deep breath, did an about face, and turned on Seventh Heaven’s ‘OPEN’ sign. For a few hours, the hustle and bustle of serving her customers would give her all the distraction she needed. She already dreaded the dead-silent end of the night, when she’d have her vacant bar and its apartment all to herself.


	3. How Does It Feel?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Multiple versions of the Nibelheim incident--primarily the original game and Crisis Core--were referenced for this chapter. Contents such as dialogue are derived from both, and some small liberties have been taken in how they were combined to make it cohesive.

Sephiroth touched his forehead and blinked. The dossier on Nibelheim was apparently exaggeration-free; more so than he’d anticipated. Though he’d eliminated the dragon with ease, the swimming sensation behind his eyes and ringing in his ears informed him he’d taken damage from its extinction-burst Ultima. He hadn’t been planning to rest much so as to expedite this mission, but if Nibelheim’s fauna had mutated to rival those indigenous to the Icicle region, caution was warranted. 

A muddy bubble popped at his feet. Where the dragon had fallen, a pit of oily, Mako-glazed slop quivered.

“How long has the reactor been malfunctioning?” he said to no one.

Checking behind him, he noted that Zack still lay unconscious. Cloud and the other cadets were in hiding if they cared about what the next day held.

Beyond the parked truck, up the path that led into town, the air rippled with aqua-tinged, contaminated heatwaves. Allowing infrastructure to crumble until it needed replaced was not uncharacteristic of Shinra, but the classified materials here should have rated more attention. Excessive gas ventilation was enough to shut down a reactor in Midgar, as it could filter into the wealthier, plate-top neighborhoods. Here, without Shinra’s continued presence, no such concern applied.

What would Shinra do, Sephiroth thought, when there was nothing left to control but monsters and mutants? What would power mean when the rural towns like this one died off, and those remaining moved into Midgar or Junon with nothing to their names but a well-founded grudge? Did the executive board believe its propaganda would never hit a wall of reality it couldn’t penetrate?

If they thought Avalanche was a liability now, they were failing to think long term. But he was not. If not for their proven interest in absconding with the S.R.D.’s incompetent leadership, he’d have likely added to that liability himself by now. If Professor Hojo were removed from the picture, he might still.

Another dizzy spell hit him. He pinched the bridge of his nose and found he could barely feel it. The last time he’d felt this anesthetized, he was much younger, and the effects deliberate. Measured. Observed. But those were inconsequential personal nuisances. Irrelevant. Completing the mission in haste would be paramount, lest he or the others suffer lasting neurological damage. 

Zack rolled off his rock then, vomited, and stood. “What kind of…” he groaned, tenderly touching the small, bloody lump that had formed on the back of his head.

Sephiroth silently examined him, and determined he’d recover. “We’ll be staying the night in town. It would seem our briefing underestimated the reactor’s malfunction. Or perhaps…understated.”

“Why would they lie about something like that?” Zack asked, squatting a few times to recalibrate himself.

“Why have they lied about anything?”

“You think Hollander has something going on here too?”

“No. This was Professor Gast and Hojo’s operation. The project’s assets were partially relocated to Midgar after a series of accidents years ago. The details on the nature of those assets remain strictly classified, however. Only the president and Professor Hojo currently have clearance.”

Zack shuffled and looked to pry deeper, but Cloud emerged from the back of the van and waved them down. “Hey. Driver wants to know if we have the all-clear,” he said.

Sephiroth glared up at the shimmering sky. Dusk was approaching, giving it the appearance of having been wrapped in a layer of cellophane. “Yes. We’ll turn in and begin the investigation tomorrow.”

* * *

They arrived at the gate just as the sun sank behind the mountains. Sephiroth stepped up to the entrance and paused. The odor of rancid old Mako sewage wafted in on a breeze blowing down Mt. Nibel’s slope.

“The Mako smell here is pretty bad,” he commented, and then remembered-- “Cloud, was it?”

The now-masked cadet straightened. “Sir?”

“It’s been a while since you’ve been back to your hometown. How does it feel? I…don’t have a hometown, so I wouldn’t know.”

Further lowering his mask, Cloud hesitated, failing to respond save for a few choked noises. This return unnerved him, it seemed. Perhaps there were people here he’d rather avoid seeing—a sentiment Sephiroth could appreciate.

“What about your parents?” Zack interjected.

Sephiroth swallowed imperceptibly. It was an unpleasant topic, but he’d all but broached it himself. “My mother’s name is Jenova. She died after giving birth to me, and my father—” Harsh, uncontrolled laughter broke loose from his tightened diaphragm. That was a name he refused to associate with himself. He shook his head. No, he’d not humor this one. “What does it matter? Let’s go.”

As they advanced into the town, the brittle, bitter amusement knotting in his chest died down. Should he choose to defect from Shinra, he’d likely take up residence in a place like this—somewhere remote where the foreign scenery of families and neighbors living out their daily lives would surround him. It nagged at him even now, while he watched a young woman trot up to Zack and inquire about their investigation.

Out of habit, he mentally catalogued key physical descriptors: roughly sixteen, fit, long dark hair, and an unusual red tinge to her eyes. He wondered if she owed that curious trait to living here; he’d never seen anything quite like it. Sephiroth tore his gaze from the conversing duo moments later, conscious that much more would qualify his behavior as open gawking.

She asked if any SOLDER Firsts were with them, and Sephiroth grimaced. How typical. In this corner of the world, Shinra propagandized even those they poisoned.

“Only me and Sephiroth,” Zack explained.

Somehow, the misguided fawning Sephiroth had come to expect once he’d been identified never materialized. Instead, the lady’s face fell, and he cocked his head slightly. This one had apparently been anticipating someone specific—one who was not on this mission or had deceived her about his rank.

Cloud’s stilted response to his query on coming home was now beginning to fit an emerging pattern. If he remained with Shinra, Sephiroth could have him fined and reprimanded for misrepresenting his rank to a civilian. If he chose to care.

He might.

What it meant and felt like to wait for someone who never returned was well known to him. It had been the last teachable moment he’d received from the late Professor Gast. He’d failed to comprehend its gravity fully at the time—its predictive quality that might have allowed him to foresee that Angeal and Genesis were also to be temporary factors in his life.

Angeal had convinced him for a short while that the three of them were inseparable…

“Why am I thinking about this?” he complained.

“I see…” the young woman conceded at the same time and ran away.

“…weird kid,” he caught the tail end of Zack’s commentary on her.

“We will investigate starting tomorrow morning,” Sephiroth repeated to regain his bearings. “The terrain here is difficult, so we’ll sleep early. Vigilance will be of the utmost importance.”

“No kidding,” Zack agreed, poking again at his injured head.

Sephiroth walked up to the inn’s door, but then turned. “Oh. That’s right,” he said, looking pointedly at Cloud. “You may visit family and friends if you wish.”

* * *

The mutated dragon.

The ambient energy sheen that waxed and waned around them, making him feel like a spectator, detached from his own body.

The red-eyed woman.

The misplaced familiarity of the scenery before him as he gazed out the inn’s second floor window.

Weary, Sephiroth closed his eyes and wondered how many of the town’s oddities were rooted in the reactor. He had doubts it was entirely at fault. Mt. Nibel boasted a vast network of caverns, many that housed raw Mako springs—the environment here was steeped in it before Shinra came in.

Tomorrow, he, Zack, and the others would meet with the guide he’d paid for at the inn’s front desk. Though young, she was locally notorious for her scouting and rock-climbing competencies, and she could supposedly fight. The way up was too hazardous to scale at speed without assistance. Feeling their way up with nothing but a map would prove too time consuming, and if he could rely on her to be self-sufficient in a standard combat situation, all the better.

Reopening his eyes, Sephiroth examined the town’s center. An old well stood alone in the midst of a poorly lit street, but on a clear night, the heavens did more than enough to compensate. Three children with toy swords converged on it to climb, but an elderly man stepped out of his house to remind them of the danger and instructed them to go back indoors.

Sephiroth felt his mood dip. Nibelheim made him heavy in a way other locations, even when war-torn, had not. The atmosphere itself seemed to close in on him.

An errant idea that he’d never leave buzzed between his ears, a pest he wasn’t permitted to swipe away. What was he thinking? He would, as always, complete his assignment and report back to Midgar, ostensibly to stand by until further instructed. During that down period, he’d possibly leave. Securing time to himself was a known habit. It would be weeks before the Turks or the S.R.D. realized he wasn’t merely recuperating.

The weight settled deeper. He himself had already considered that life away from Shinra would find him in a place like Nibelheim.

And he’d never been here before, but all parts of him except the very forefront of his mind insisted he had.

“Hometown…”

* * *

By dawn, Sephiroth had rested little, but enough to suffice. Reluctantly, he walked out into some of the fanfare and clamor he thought he might avoid this time. Most of the townsfolk were timid in his group’s presence, but those tasked with seeing them off were not without SOLDIER fans. Much to his irritation, Zack’s cajoling had encouraged their guide, the red-eyed lady now known to him as Tifa, to insist that they should humor a townsperson’s request for a photograph.

Knowing the situation would sooner resolve by cooperating, he turned, stared at the camera until it flashed, and immediately resumed reviewing the final supplies checklist for the reactor’s repairs.

The very last item on that list was a fresh reminder he was leaning on someone still dependent on her father.

“Listen to me, Sephiroth. In case something happens…” Brian Lockhart started, feigning ignorance that his daughter had forfeited his say in this venture to SOLDIER once payment had been rendered. His voice wavered with an undernote of panic.

If he did not agree with this contract, then he should have prevented her from taking it beforehand. All parties were now locked in.

“…Trust me,” he replied, meeting his eyes. They were a common shade of brown. Perhaps Tifa had more exposure to the natural Mako because of her mountain climbing, or it could be maternal.

What traits might he owe to his own mother?

He spotted Cloud before he could chase down that thought further, hovering just within earshot of Tifa and Zack. For someone with a clean record of military compliance, Cloud’s lack of personal discipline was astonishing.

Astonishing to him, but not to Zack, nor likely anyone who hailed from a place like this, but Sephiroth—no. There was no comparison to be made between himself and the others, as was often the case.

“…I’m the best guide in this village,” he heard Tifa defend herself, confident in that assertion.

Zack protested in response that someone like her shouldn’t be involved.

What had caused Zack to believe _he_ had a say in this, Sephiroth couldn’t pretend not to know. It had been amusing when it was the one back in the Midgar slums; this interfered directly with a mission.

Sephiroth cut in, “It will be fine if you protect her.”

At that, they began their ascent up the mountain trail. The air was expectedly frigid but oddly still for the geography. Sephiroth memorized what he could see of the steep inclines, narrow junctures with no guardrails, and one rope bridge that from his current vantage point looked untrustworthy. Aside from Nibelheim’s remoteness, Mt. Nibel itself served as a natural security system for the reactor.

“These days, it’s mostly a kids’ story, but some of our elders still believe that the dead pass through the mountain before moving on,” Tifa said. “Not that many who try to cross are ever seen again…”

“Many rural villages have been known produce similar myths,” Sephiroth replied.

Tifa scowled, transparently offended, but didn’t push back. “It gets harder from here! Follow me!” she rattled off, and then booked ahead of everyone, undeterred by the steep slope or the unguarded gorge the upcoming section of the trail followed on the left.

He was able to go after her with relative ease, but the bridge was, as predicted, uncooperative. When he’d made it a third of the way across, the ropes popped and snapped, unravelling beneath his hands and feet before it collapsed entirely. It deposited them onto an alternate path jutting out from the cliff about four meters down.

Sephiroth landed hard for the awkward angle of his descent but found his feet before impact. A flash of prickling, startled heat surged up his spine when he saw blue-green streaks and smudges had formed in the space where the bridge used to be, evaporating like condensation from a hot glass. These irregularities’ frequency would surely only increase as they gained altitude and approached the reactor. Given the intense atmospheric disturbances, it was possible the malfunction was too severe for he and Zack to repair alone.

If they failed to concoct a stop gap, Shinra would fly in an advanced team of Mako engineers the next day. Because of the sensitive assets stashed here, the town below would be overrun with Turks and army personnel as well.

Marching around the corner, he met up with the rest of the group. Their injuries appeared limited to minor scrapes and wounded egos. No one had broken anything. “Everyone seems to be all right,” he said, and then turned to face Tifa. “Can we get back to where we were?”

“From here? These caves are intertwined, just like an ant farm. Oh, and Sephiroth…there seems to be one person missing…”

Of course, he’d noticed. He’d seen the cadet duck and roll further down the path than the others, but not where he’d finally come to a stop. But the situation with the reactor had grown too dangerously volatile to allow for any further delays. “It may sound cold, but we’ve no time to search for him. We can’t go back now, so we must go on.” He resisted the urge to assign her tantrum responsibility for the fall openly, gesturing for her to lead on. “We’ll travel together from here.”

Rounding the next bend, they entered the caves, their walls bruised a dim biofluorescent green and overrun with mossy growth. The pathway through the chamber was narrow, caged in on both sides by eons-old stalactites and stalagmites. It somewhat resembled something he wished it wouldn’t, and the image of Hojo’s lab enclosures flashed unbidden before his eyes. If they were quick, he could almost ignore them, but as of late, dark or tight spaces recalled many of the bizarre tasks assigned to him as a child.

As much as such things could be called tasks…

When had he realized simply accommodating the S.R.D. and Shinra would pass the time much quicker than resistance or bargaining? Why was it only occurring to him now that it was his time they’d taken, and continued to take, without recompense?

“A mysterious colored cave…” Tifa hummed, prompting any of the group to ask why, as though speaking with tourists. Those were probably her normal clients.

“It must be the Mako energy,” he answered the question in advance, hoping it would express the unique urgency of this job. “This mountain is especially abundant in it. That’s why the Mako reactor was built here.” It was also why her stomping grounds were infested with monsters.

Yet, as they filed out of the first cavern into a well-lit opening, he couldn’t help but pause with everyone else at what they saw, propped up and glistening in a ray of sunlight like a religious relic. 

“…And what’s this?” Zack chimed.

“A Mako fountain. It’s a miracle of nature,” he replied. Despite his rigorous education on the subject, this was the first one he’d ever encountered live. It inspired awe, if not reverence. Seeing that crystals poked out from the plasma-like, unprocessed Mako, he pointed them out, “Materia. When you condense Mako energy, materia is produced. It’s…very rare to be able to see it in its natural state.”

“If the Mako Reactor continues to suck up the energy, this fountain will dry up too,” Tifa ruminated, further evidence for the creeping discontent with Shinra Sephiroth believed was transpiring worldwide.

What would someone like her do if he offered to act against the company on her behalf? This very mission could turn into that if he so chose. Did she yet possess the imagination to make that request, or was it inert idealism?

Then Zack, intent on disrupting the moment, posed an ignorant question on the basic function of materia—one to which the answer should have been second nature. The fact that Shinra’s best scientific journals on the topic of materia hardly departed from Ancient legend might be to blame, but beneath the understanding of those who used it routinely. He should know better.

He answered Zack, who grew childishly wide-eyed at the notion of “mysterious powers” and “magic” in response.

Sephiroth couldn’t help himself. He laughed, bitterly and unrepentantly for whoever saw it happen. Speaking of stolen time…

“Did I say somethin’ funny?” Zack asked, reverting to work mode.

“A man once told me never to use an unscientific term such as ‘mysterious power’! It shouldn’t even be called ‘magic’. I still remember how angry he was.”

He’d spent too much time listening to condescending lectures about the necessity of precise, agnostic language to describe the scope of the S.R.D.’s work. What that entailed depended on Hojo’s whims and was more a matter of vigilance than academics.

Even places yet to be scarred by Shinra had the power to remind him of an old conversation, a lesson, or perhaps one of the many punitive measures Hojo had reported as endurance tests when he was younger. Sephiroth had long since discovered that the tests were far outside the normal thresholds for SOLDIER. Nonetheless, because he’d withstood them, their occurrence was classified, and Hojo suffered no consequences other than cautions against damaging him beyond repair before he came of age.

Hojo was frequently angry…

“Who was that?”

“Hojo…An inexperienced man assigned to take over the work of a great scientist. He was a walking mass of complexes,” Sephiroth explained.

After that, he saw that Tifa was still enthralled with the fountain while Cloud kept watch. “…So this is where the knowledge of the Ancients is,” she mumbled.

Tender idealism it was.

In turn, he pondered Tifa’s father, and how dead set he’d seemed against testing the limits of her resilience—such a perfect, damning contrast. Cloud had also returned home to visit his mother the previous night, despite choosing against revealing himself publicly.

Sephiroth once more stopped himself from pursuing that perturbed train of thought. It might be the correct place, but it wasn’t the time.

His favored theory continued to be that air was contaminated with psycho-reactive Mako vapors. Had it leaked into the water or leached into the soil, the effect would have been localized and sporadic, whereas the gaseous form could explain the unusual lights he’d seen, the surging monster population, and his own minor but rapid destabilization. 

All the more reason to fulfill this mission immediately—matters that typically needled him only upon explicit mention now loomed large and related to everything. His mind was threatening to become its own cavernous maze, impossible to avoid but for choosing where to enter.

* * *

They breached the reactor’s clearing late in the afternoon.

Tifa dashed ahead once more. “We finally made it. We sure took the long way though.”

Ascending the steps to the reactor’s door, Sephiroth motioned to the two cadets who remained with the group. “Stay out here and keep watch.”

“I’m going inside too. I wanna see!” Tifa announced.

Sephiroth was tempted to let her have her way; to let her witness the machinery that had polluted her hometown and might eventually destroy it. He could provide her with what she needed to transform from idealist to radical, and she could serve as the first dagger he planted in Shrina’s back—a start to disrupting the company’s sanitized information sphere.

But it was reckless. He couldn’t predict the consequences; whether it would stay here as yet another whispered rumor or spread, and to whom. Nor could he assume Zack would be on board. Better to wait until he’d defected. “This area is restricted. The complex is full of Shinra’s industrial secrets.”

“But!”

“Take care of the lady,” Sephiroth said, taking another moment to set his sights on Cloud.

If he was honest, their situation scarcely paralleled Gast’s permanent departure, but it compromised him. Cloud’s desire to conceal his low rank was immaterial—Tifa should be permitted to know that her friend was alive.

Fortunately, there was rational explanation that would have resulted in the same decision: Aside from its classification, the Mt. Nibel reactor was treacherous as the mountain itself to navigate inside, and neither Tifa nor the cadets were cleared to review the schematics beforehand. Only he and Zack entered, maneuvering across broken pipes the plan had diagrammed as whole, and planks of plywood where reinforced catwalk bridges were supposed to have been constructed over the Mako pit decades ago.

At last, they reached and descended the sturdiest piece of the obstacle course, the ladder that would take them into the equipment and control rooms.

Once inside, they climbed the central stairs—the most likely place for a critical malfunction was the room the bulk of the plumbing and electrical systems fed into.

But this was no ordinary reactor.

Sephiroth saw his mother’s name emblazoned over the sealed door—the only one to which they’d not been granted access—but ignored Zack’s exclamations over the name. It wasn’t so farfetched that his mother had been involved in Hojo’s experiments, or that she’d provided the nomenclature for some of it. This reactor’s contents were the remains of Hojo and Gast’s work here.

There was no sense in dwelling on it; their mission remained the same.

Sephiroth wandered back down the steps and examined the bottom row of egg-shaped pods. Had this equipment been abandoned? The pods thrummed rhythmically and synchronous, functioning as though they were normally maintained. But why would Shinra keep up on just these devices while all else to fell into disrepair?

Finally, he spotted a connection nested just under the first pod that had broken loose at several points along the row, allowing the exhaust system to become imbalanced. In short, his assessment of the pollution type involved was correct, but the external leak this small disruption had created wouldn’t be substantial enough for the effects he’d observed.

Something else must have broken too, but for now, they’d remedy this one.

“This must be the cause of the malfunction. This section is broken. Zack, go seal the valve…” What operation was Hojo still attempting to carry on here, and what did his late mother have to do with it? “What caused it to break?”

Sephiroth turned to the pod nearby and looked inside.

A beastly gray humanoid hibernated therein, its skull and spine raised into sharp spikes, clenched teeth enlarged and bared, and its face frozen in a painful contortion. The being was once, or rather should have still been, a man. The Mako a living creature could absorb before it mutated or died was limited based on a variety of factors.

Hojo was again engaging in his favorite pastime of testing thresholds. What Tifa had shared about no one returning from the mountain now pointed to something more insidious than local folk tales.

Stepping back, he murmured, “…Now I see, Hojo. But even doing this will never put you on the same level as Professor Gast.” He motioned to Zack. “Take a look.”

Zack did as he was ordered.

Sephiroth couldn’t afford to be the only one who knew what the company was doing here. Zack could be another dagger if he understood... “You average SOLDIER members are Mako-infused humans. You’re enhanced, but you’re still human. But then, what are those things? Their Mako levels are exponentially higher than yours.”

“Are they…monsters?”

That—the word that should define them—was taken out of their hands a long time ago. Out of his… “Yes. The Shinra scientist Hojo was the one who created them. Abominations spawned by Mako energy: that’s what monsters are.”

Zack hesitated. “You said ‘average’ member. What about you?”

The room’s temperature flash-increased. The air rippled. Sweat broke out along his back and neck, and Sephiroth flinched, releasing a short, sharp gasp. If it wasn’t his suspicion alone; if it wasn’t the poor light in which his own mounting cynicism had cast the company…could that mean…?

Sephiroth turned from Zack and palmed his forehead, stumbling forward a few paces. His pulse hammered in his ears. Vertigo swam behind his eyes and throbbed in his temples. Something was happing to him. A month or a year from now, would he be just another subject suspended in one of these pods, retired not from the company, but from the world altogether?

Could he hope to see any plan of escape he made come to fruition, or was it all for naught and only a matter of time before he was yet again abandoned to Hojo’s devices?

“Hey, Sephiroth!” Zack called to him and reached for his arm.

_No._

He wouldn’t be told they’d figure it out again. Not after Angeal, who not unlike him..so like him, after all…

Sephiroth batted Zack away and stopped, lifting his hands to stare at them—two human limbs that meant nothing. “Could it be that I was created the same way?”

But he was worse. He could feel it, the dread incubating in the pit of his stomach. “I knew, ever since I was a child, I was not like the others. I knew mine was a special existence,” he voiced for the first time.

One of the pods hissed emphatically, and its front hatch swung open. The entity inside lay curled up in a fetal position, screeching like a monster, but in a tone that registered agony and fear—a desperate plea for aid that had never and would never come.

_It…had never come. Gast had never returned._

“But this? This is not what I meant,” he concluded.

What that creature was now, and what it had been—even if it held tight in a corner of its mind to fading sparks of a life before, all that fear and pain did not a person make. 

Sephiroth stared down his own hands again. “Am I…a human being?”

“No such luck,” a familiar voice called from beyond the room’s entrance, snapping him momentarily from his spiral. “You are a monster.”

Sephiroth heard Genesis’ double Fira spell before it came and lifted a hand to shield and deflect it.

Zack failed to see it, and it knocked him back.

“Sephiroth,” Genesis intoned, “You were the greatest monster created by the Jenova Project.”

“Genesis! So you are alive!” Zack accused once he’d recovered.

“I suppose I am, if you can call this living.”

Sephiroth remained stone-faced. Genesis had an ulterior motive, but... “What is the Jenova Project?”

“The Jenova Project was the term used for all experiments relating to the use of Jenova’s cells,” Genesis explained.

“My mother’s…cells?” Sephiroth glanced back up at the sealed door, at his mother’s name. It was nothing new for Hojo to store a cadaver for long term study. Why should she be any different?

“Poor little Sephiroth,” Genesis mocked him. “You’ve never actually met your mother. You’ve only been told her name, no?” His voice turned acerbic then, as one meant to shame a stubborn child. “I don’t know what images you’ve conjured up in your head—”

“Genesis, no!” Zack yelled.

If even the likes of Zack were this certain, this frightened…

Genesis ignored him. “Jenova was excavated from a 2000 year old rock layer. She’s a monster.”

Sephiroth lost his footing once more, assailed by another wave of disorienting heat. His breath hitched. The walls in this place—they wanted to crush him, but…when had that not been their purpose? Everything and everyone in Hojo’s orbit served a purpose, and when he was finished with them…

“Sephiroth…I need your help,” Genesis said, more lethargic. “My body is continuing to degrade.”

Weighing the ramifications of Genesis’ claims, Sephiroth pretended not to hear him. This information required action—confirmation— but what could he do?

“SOLDIER First Class Sephiroth,” Genesis barked at him.

Like a puppet on tightening strings, his shoulders squared and spine straightened, obeying the call that had been programmed into him before his voice had fully dropped. Instantly and regardless of what he wanted, he listened, awaiting his new orders.

“Jenova Project G gave birth to Angeal…and monsters like myself. Jenova Project S used the remains of countless failed experiments to create a perfect monster.”

Sephiroth summoned the will to allow his eyes to drop. “What do you want of me?”

Genesis continued, “Your traits cannot be copied onto others. Your genes cannot be diffused. Therefore, your body cannot degrade.” He rose from the perch he’d found on the steps and paced closer. “Share your cells with me,” he said, presenting one of his Banora White apples, an offer of his friendship anew in exchange. “’ _My friend, your desire is the bringer of life, he gift of the goddess.’”_

Dumbfounded, Sephiroth trailed his sights from Genesis’ outstretched hand back up once more to his—to Jenova’s chamber. He knew not what he’d do next, but he was certain both the hand extended to him and its contents were a farce.

“Whether your words are lies created to deceive me…or the truth that I have sought _all my life_ , it makes no difference.” He faced Genesis one last time and swatted the fruit away.

“You will rot.”

* * *

Sephiroth awoke trembling and coated in a cold, sticky layer of sweat. While unconscious, his fist had buried his knuckles a centimeter into the plaster wall, cracking and flaking it so that bits and pieces crumbled down to his mattress.

He recounted the details of his location and time, still uncomfortably adrift and trying to return to himself.

He had been asleep in the makeshift spare bedroom Reeve had fashioned out of an unused walk-in closet, judging by the bare clothing rack that lined the opposite wall. Reeve’s flat was in the town of Kalm. Reeve Tuesti was the former head of Shinra’s Urban Development department, who had founded the World Regenesis Organization. The W.R.O. existed because Shinra’s errors had invited disasters of calamitous proportions onto the world.

Sitting up, Sephiroth further inspected the narrow room. A thin blade of sunlight peeked through the edge of the blackout curtain that covered the window at the foot of his bed. A small stack of folded pants, shirts, and pairs of boots and shoes lay atop the shelf above the clothes rack. His mud-encrusted coat hung from a hook on the door, and his armor was piled in the corner behind him.

This meant that someone had entered and left those articles while he’d slept, and he’d not roused in the least. Sleeping heavily, especially in new surroundings, was not normal for him. Had Reeve and Vincent drugged him? It seemed unlikely. If they had, whatever they’d given him was weak enough to have already worn off. He did remember how exhausted he’d been upon his arrival the previous night, however.

“Jenova…” he muttered to himself. “The Jenova Project…”

He had vividly dreamt that his mission in Nibelheim had continued as planned; that whatever phenomenon had caused him to skip or lose seven years had never taken place. As he recalled thinking in his dream, it was intuitive that the S.R.D. would name a project for once of its central participants. Except…this dream had turned nightmare when he realized the participant in question was more of a ‘what’ than a ‘who’, and he was forced to imagine what that might mean for him.

Remaining still, he took a minute to study the air. The aurora-like anomalies and displaced heat waves that had plagued his dream did not appear to be present here.

This was reality, and he was now conscious.

But no sooner had he grasped it, Sephiroth felt the relief he craved already slipping through his hands. Although it was a nightmare, the questions it had posed were real, and long overdue for answers. With Shinra crippled and impotent, accessing information they’d kept under wraps might prove less challenging.

Or, that information may have been destroyed altogether. In that case, were Hojo or any of his proteges still alive, and would Reeve and Vincent allow him to interrogate them on the matter?

“Allow,” Sephroth spat, annoyed at how delicately the two men appeared to be handling him.

For that, he ran face-first back into his original suspicion: He was not himself. If that was true, he justified every precaution they were taking. Perhaps the dream was some form of shared or memetic memory. This would mean all that he’d experienced had happened to the original.

But…why worry about the truth when he was not the correct person to claim it? What difference did it make and what meaning could it possibly hold if everything about him was manufactured and placed within several degrees of separation?

Pain and fear alone did not a person make.

And yet, he still longed to understand. Had he—or the original—continued in Nibelheim, what would he have done with Genesis’ assertions?

That answer was simple: Regardless of his fatigue and distress, he would have followed the lead to its end. He would have searched through every catalogue, library, and office the S.R.D. had ensconced around the world, starting with the village.

But he was here and now, in a world trying to contain and move past those things. The best he could hope for was to negotiate.

Deflated, Sephiroth decided that in his current state, a hot shower was his most pressing need.

This body was his, if nothing else. 


End file.
